


Love, Myrtle

by SweetSerenity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSerenity/pseuds/SweetSerenity
Summary: Hermione sneaks into the hospital wing to visit Draco Malfoy after the Sectumsempra incident, to deliver a letter from Moaning Myrtle.





	1. Love, Myrtle

She crept towards the hospital wing under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm, taking one slow step at a time. She’d watched the patrols on the Map last night and she thought she had a good chance at a clear run, as long as she was back in her bed by 3am. Harry’s cloak would have been more effective, but if she had asked to borrow it he would have been full of questions. And he wouldn’t like the answers. She’d thought about smuggling it out of his dorm room, but her conscience had thwarted her. She had done a practice run back in their fifth year. It had been an easy heist. Harry was pretty careless when it came to securing his possessions. She had no plans to steal from Harry. She’d just needed to know that she _could_ do it, in an emergency-type situation. Harry wouldn’t begrudge her that. He was involved in an emergency every other week. But using the cloak would just implicate Harry if she were caught. She could pull this off on her own.

She made it to the hospital wing without seeing a soul. She cast a noise-dampening spell on the doors then pushed them open. She braced herself for the creak that never came. The stark white sheets and curtains looked eerie in the dark. She had always found it hard to sleep here, after her petrification. It was creepy, knowing that she had been frozen on one of these beds, in a state worse than a coma. She had thought to face that during her fourth year, when she agreed to be the bait for the underwater challenge in the Triwizard Tournament. It had only made it worse. When she slept, there was a part of her that worried that she wouldn’t wake up again. So she had found a way to get by on less sleep and now she had a slightly shorter temper to compensate for it. She spent the extra time studying and making emergency plans. Without it, she would have had to give up on one or the other. As seriously as she took her studies, even she had to admit that survival was more important. Luckily, for now, she had time for both. So she spent half of her nights lying in bed, making plans for worst-case scenarios, plans that she hoped would be unnecessary. This plan was one of her shakier ones. It relied on the word of a ghost, on her ability to bluff, on her feeble understanding of the entire situation. The gaps in her knowledge were huge. But time was of the essence, so she had to enact the first phase of her plan tonight, come what may.

Through the shadows she could see that there was one bed on the far side of the room with the curtains drawn around it. The other beds were all empty. She pushed the curtain aside and found her target lying on the cot, sound asleep. She’d thought that Malfoy would be even paler than usual, but his complexion was almost rosy, probably a side-effect from blood replenishment potions. There were bandages poking out from the neck of his hospital gown. She recognised the high-grade bandages made from unicorn hair. That suggested that the cuts were deep and magic-resistant. There would likely be scarring. She shuddered. Harry’s description of the mystery _Sectumsempra_ curse had been haunting.

She placed her letter on the bedside table and turned to leave. As she let the curtain flutter down behind her, Malfoy jerked awake. She heard a noise that she was familiar with, a noise that was a cross between a sigh and a sob. Ginny made that same noise when she woke up from nightmares. At first, Hermione had interpreted it as relief that the nightmare wasn’t real. One night at Grimmauld Place two summers ago, Ginny had corrected her. It was actually despair that the nightmare _had_ been real, that it would be engraved in her past no matter how many times she woke up from it. Now the noise made Hermione hesitate. Her instinctual reaction to that noise was to comfort, to soothe. But her brain chimed in that it was Malfoy, not Ginny, behind the curtain and he wouldn’t find her presence at all soothing. She had a plan. Leave the letter, come back tomorrow night with her big speech.

“Who’s there?” Malfoy called out. His voice was shaking. She whispered a spell so that she could see through the curtain. He didn’t pull out a wand, so she assumed that it had been confiscated. He cowered back against the pillow.

“Hermione Granger,” she answered. He was obviously fearing something far worse than her. It would be cruel to leave him lying there in paranoia.

His face turned towards her location with pinpoint accuracy. Seeker senses. “Prove it.”

She considered it for a moment. There was no one else around. A quick _Homenum Revelio_ confirmed that. If anyone did see her, what could they accuse her of? Seeking out medical help in the middle of the night? She could feign a migraine if necessary. There was no real security reason to stay hidden.

Still, she hesitated. There was just so much more power in being invisible. Malfoy wouldn’t be able to read her expression, wouldn’t be able to sense when one of his barbs struck deep. She would have the upper hand. But Malfoy was lying there in front of her, weak and afraid. She already had the upper hand and she didn’t find any satisfaction in it at all. She sighed and tapped her head with her wand to deactivate the Disillusionment Charm.

Malfoy attempted a feeble smirk that wasn’t fooling anyone. “Here to gloat over Potter’s handiwork?” He gestured to the bandages. “Or point out his sloppy aim? I’m sure if it had been you wielding the wand, I would have been dead on the spot. How would you have done it? A slash to the heart? Decapitation?”

“I have a letter for you. From Moaning Myrtle.” After his jibe, she took immense pleasure from the look of horror on his face.

“Ghosts can’t write letters.”

“No, but they can dictate a message. She begged me to write it out for her. And I did, word for word. Myrtle is quite the poet.”

“Why? Why would you… just why?”

“Myrtle and I go way back. I was sympathetic to her plight.” After she and Myrtle had shared a few rounds of catty insults, the two of them had a real conversation. It had been illuminating.

“You’re making this up. What’s really in the envelope?” He poked at it tentatively.

“That envelope contains a genuine letter from Moaning Myrtle to Draco Malfoy.”

He let out a burst of laughter. There was a hysterical edge to it. His face was animated now, made up of moving parts. There was a lopsided curl to his lip, his eyebrows jumped up and down, his chin wobbled. It made his patented sneer seem like nothing at all in comparison, just a muscle twitch. It was ugly. It was entrancing. She realised that since the school year started, he had been like a slab of granite. That was what Harry had seen and what she had chosen to ignore. She had been stubbornly determined to study for her N.E.W.Ts with laser-like intensity, before something happened to get in her way. She had been relieved at Malfoy’s uncharacteristic silence. At his imitation of a statue.

 But now he was flesh and blood again. _She_ had done that. She had brought Draco Malfoy back to life. Or killed him, depending on your perspective. She found it hard to believe that this was the same boy she had spent the last six years despising.

It was over far too soon. The sound of laughter cut off abruptly and a crinkle formed between his brows. It was a deep crinkle. He must have been thinking hard lately. It was the very same crinkle she got when she was making an unwelcome leap of logic. A painful epiphany. She could practically see the wheels turning in his mind. Why would Hermione Granger show up in the hospital wing just to tease him with a love letter from a ghost? They didn’t have a pranking type of relationship. Their verbal sparring was meant to wound. It was never in good fun. It was meant to provoke laughter from bystanders, not from the target.

Hermione waited for the bomb to drop, but seconds ticked by and he just sat there frowning and frowning, unable to puzzle her out. She gave into her impatience. He wasn’t getting there on his own. The healing potions were probably messing with this brain. “Myrtle and I talked for hours. She wanted the letter to be perfect.”

He reached for the letter but she slapped his hand away. The letter was just a prop. He was missing her point. “She gets lonely in that old bathroom. It was easy to coax the words out of her. She likes to hear the sound of her own voice. Or any voice. She was ecstatic when you started confiding in her.”

The frown turned into a glare. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Despite the hospital gown, he looked aggressive with his feet planted on the ground. He looked dangerous. But she had already known he was, when she entered the room. Harry had told her about the failed Cruciatus Curse Malfoy had shot at him. She was dangerous too. She wouldn’t be intimidated.

“You don’t know anything,” he whispered harshly. “You’re just like Potter. Waving his wand around in the dark. Guess his mummy never warned him about that. It’s how silly wizards poke their own eyes out.”

Hermione made sure to keep her voice level and calm. She wasn’t Harry. She wasn’t going to let this conversation escalate out of her control. “You were indiscreet. You told Myrtle enough for her to put two and two together. She knows your allegiance and she knows that you’re working on something for your new master.”

“Who’s going to listen to a batty ghost?”

“Dumbledore. Myrtle told me that she had a nice long chat with him.”

“Words don’t prove anything. You can’t use Veritaserum on a ghost.”

“Dumbledore isn’t naive enough to miss the opportunity to check an unconscious boy for a dark mark.”

Malfoy rolled up the sleeve of his nightgown and thrust out his unblemished arm. “What mark?”

Hermione shook her head. “Do you really think there’s a concealment charm that Dumbledore couldn’t crack?”

“Then why am I here? Why aren’t I in a cosy cell in Azkaban?”

“I don’t know. But you should be.”

“You aren’t going to preach to me about love and redemption? Tell me that I’m good and pure and light and blah blah blah?”

“No. You’re a petty vindictive little boy with the brains of a rock. You joined a merry band of murderers with a cause you don’t even believe in. Why? For a few cool points from your Slytherin buddies?”

“You can’t tell me what I believe in. Your kind are dirt. Scum. Lower than-“

In one smooth movement she was perched on the edge of the cot and her lips were swallowing up the hateful words. It was a feather-light kiss, the barest touch. He had stopped breathing and so had she. Without conscious thought, her left hand had gravitated to where his was lying flat on the bed and now their two fists were clenched together, his trapped inside hers. She was squeezing tightly, sending all of the power that her lips were holding back into that grip. She lingered, counting down. She would give him five seconds to respond. Five, four-

His arm snapped around her waist and pulled her in. His lips opened against hers and then his tongue was in her mouth. _Draco Malfoy’s tongue was in her mouth._ She wanted to freak out about that for an eternity or two, but his was so nimble and skilful that all she could do was enjoy the sensation. In contrast, his hand was clumsy and he had to keep readjusting his grip on her hip as it slipped. She realised it was her fault for imprisoning his other hand and so she let go. Her hand felt numb, so it wasn’t enough to keep her weight balanced. She felt herself tipping backwards over the edge of the bed. There was a split second where she knew that she could grab the rail with her other hand, but she made the choice not to. The kiss needed to end before she lost her wits completely and ruined all her careful planning. She made the choice to fall. She was able to swing her legs underneath her and brace her shoulder against the cot, so the impact when she hit the floor was light. She barely felt any pain, just a slight ache in her left knee.

She breathed heavily for a few moments before rising back to her feet. Malfoy had turned his back towards her, so she couldn’t read his expression. She was grateful, because it worked both ways and he couldn’t read hers.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“I was proving my point.”

He flipped over. She wasn’t sure what he had been feeling ten seconds ago, but now all that she could see was anger. “Your point?”

“A true believer wouldn’t kiss a Mudblood like that.”

He rolled his eyes. “That proves nothing. Don’t be so naïve. Lust has nothing to do with the brain…”

“It has everything to do with it. But this is about more than just lust. I have six years’ worth of anecdotal evidence. You know I’m smart. Smarter than you. You can’t deny that with a straight face. If you could, you would have by now. It’s not like you to leave an insult unsaid.” She paused, giving him room for the denial, and smirked triumphantly when it didn’t come. “And you know that I’m as human as you are. It’s all over your face, right now. You can’t know those things about me and really, truly, believe in the inferiority of Muggleborns. Ergo, you’re a hypocrite and you don’t believe the nonsense you spouted earlier.”

“You weren’t sure of that before you kissed me. That was all over _your_ face.”

She shrugged. “Hence the need for the experiment.”

“A shining display of Gryffindor stupidity. I could have cursed you.”

“You don’t have your wand.” She flipped hers over in her hand. “But I have mine. I was prepared.”

He scoffed. “You aren’t some femme fatale. You wouldn’t have used that on me.”

“I would have if I needed to. You know _that_ about me as well.”

“So now that you’ve finished your assault, can I go back to sleep?”

“I’m not finished yet Draco.” She moved closer to the cot and closed the curtains behind her. It was well past her safe window now and someone could walk by on patrol at any moment. She didn’t want any interruptions. “I’m here because I wanted you to know that _I know_. If you even think about harming a hair on another head in this castle, I’ll be there to thwart you.”

He looked down at the bed sheets, twisting them tightly in his hands. “I don’t have a choice.”

She reached out a hand and gently lifted his head so that she could hold his gaze. His eyes were suspiciously moist. He had just been through a near-death experience and she was sure it had been a hellish year for him before that. But she couldn’t afford to grant him the mercy of letting him look away. He needed to really hear her. “You’re right. You don’t have a choice about this. Your task, whatever it was, is over. Dead in the water. All you can do now is bury it and move on.”

“You don’t know what he’ll do to me. To my mother.”

“I know what he’ll do to our world if he rises to power. You don’t want to be responsible for that. And now that I know about your dark mark, I can’t be responsible for that.” And no matter what platitudes she had given Harry to shut him up, she couldn’t trust blindly in the system, in the school or the in the order. Last year, with Umbridge, the system had spiralled so dangerously out of control that it made her dizzy. So she was taking on the responsibility for this and she meant to see it through.

He let out a sob and broke free of her grip. He turned his head into the pillow.

“Draco,” she said, “There are people who will help you. All you have to do is ask. I’ll ask for you, if that makes it easier. I can’t promise that everything will be okay, but it will be better than the alternative. You’ll thank for me for this in the long run.”

There was no response, just more muffled sobs.

“Take some time to think about it. And read the letter. It really is from Moaning Myrtle. She acts like an airhead sometimes, but she has hidden depths. She knows pain and suffering. She’s witnessed more than her fair share of it. It seems to gravitate towards bathrooms, as we both know. She has a unique perspective on all of this. She was a Muggleborn, murdered in the school where she should have felt safe, one of the first casualties to Voldemort’s madness.”

He shifted on the bed. “Most of the ghosts in the castle were murdered. Everyone has a sob story.”

“Don’t be a jerk. It’s getting old. She sees something in you, something that I couldn’t see before. Someone who can get past this pain with their soul intact. I promised her that I would make sure you do. That was her price for breaking her silence. Don’t be too hard on her for that. She may have just saved your life.”

She left Malfoy to think over his fate. They would have time to talk things over later. If he thought she was a force to be reckoned with when she was against him, he would soon see that she could be even more of a force to be reckoned with when they were on the same side. Harry and Ron would attest to that. And they would be on the same side. Even if she had to drag him kicking and screaming.

On the long walk back to her dormitory, she tried to work out whether her plan had been a success or not. She had delivered Myrtle’s message. She had delivered her own message. Within the space of an hour, she had heard Malfoy laugh and cry. She had kissed and threatened him. She had broken him down, but maybe she had left him with some hope. It would be a burden. Hope meant that you had to try harder, fight harder. Myrtle had burdened her with hope and now she had passed it on to Malfoy. Between the three of them, maybe they could find a way to make it count.


	2. Scribe

_One Day Earlier_

Hermione sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, quill and parchment in hand. “We already decided on this an hour ago. You agreed that ‘Dear Draco’ was classical and timeless. He’s a snob. I bet he never deviates from the proper letter protocols. Salazar Slytherin always began his letters with ‘Dear so-and-so’. It was in _Salazar’s Correspondence, 3 rd edition._”

Myrtle pranced over to the sink, adjusting her glasses in the mirror. “But ‘Dearest Draco’ is more sensual. He needs to know that I’m a girl of passion. Just because I wear glasses doesn’t mean I spend my time cuddling with _stuffy old books_.”

Hermione rested a hand defensively on her stack of books. They _were_ stuffy and old. That was what made them so valuable. _Quills and Me_ was a first edition from one of the Wizarding World’s most respected 18th century authors. “You don’t spend your time cuddling with anyone.”

Myrtle stuck her nose in the air. “I’ll have you know I died when the flower of my youth was about to bloom. I would have had dozens of lovers. Ones far handsomer than that blonde lug you’ve been dallying with. He has a head like a watermelon. And he isn’t at all shy in the prefect’s bathroom. He may brag about his quidditch skills, but his _equipment_ is third-rate.”

Hermione couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. She had always thought that McLaggen’s inflated ego had to be compensating for something. She was sure there was no shortage of girls willing to sneak him into the prefect’s bathroom. She would overlook the trespass. Anything that kept him away from her was a blessing, and she had bigger fish to fry. “Back to the task at hand. I’ll just leave the greeting blank. What do you want to say _next?”_

“I thought I would begin with a poem. I just need to find the right word to rhyme with grey.”

Hermione dutifully scribbled down all of Myrtle’s dreadful rhymes.

Ten minutes later, Myrtle decided to abandon the poem. “Poetry’s too restrictive. I need to let my heart soar like an eagle.”

Hermione erased the poetry with glee. She hadn’t wanted to be responsible for unleashing _that_ on the world. “Good call. Ginny Weasley wrote a poem for Harry once and they’re both still traumatised by it.”

Myrtle rounded on her with a ferocious glare. “That red-headed twit! She wouldn’t know romance if it hit her on the head. I bet she dyes her hair! Harry will see right through _her_.”

“She’s a _Weasley_ , Myrtle. They all have red hair. You must have seen dozens of them come through this school. We’re focusing on Malfoy, remember?”

* * *

 

Myrtle was making her dizzy. She was floating upside down, spinning around and around at high speed, chattering away non-stop. Apparently it was part of her creative process.

“Riddle had eyes like lasers. Like bullets.”

Hermione sighed. “He’s a Pureblood, Myrtle. He won’t get your Muggle metaphors.”

“Eyes like a stunning spell…”

Hermione wanted to cover her ears and scream, but she kept on writing. She felt like a hostage to Myrtle’s madness. She couldn’t stop.

“They were pretty eyes, but not half as pretty as yours. Even then, he had _no soul_. But you do. I could tell the first time I saw you. I don’t know if ghosts have souls, but if you have one you shouldn’t throw it away. You’ll end up looking all bald and snakey and gross.”

Hermione almost dropped her pen. Now they were getting somewhere. She wasn’t sure Myrtle had actually ever seen Tom Riddle’s eyes, but under the circumstances some creative license was called for. If Myrtle could just stay on point, they could have a semi-readable soul-saving missive in an hour. Malfoy was very susceptible to flattery. He and Myrtle had that in common.

“But let me tell you about the summer of my fourth year. There was a boy next door with golden locks…”

She groaned and put her hands over her ears. “Make it stop.”

“What? I’m just trying to inspire some jealousy. Every good romance needs a love triangle and you already banned Harry’s name.”

Hermione dug through her satchel and pulled out a book with a glossy pink cover. “If I promise to give you this copy of _Veela in Venice_ , will you skip the trip down memory lane? Please?”

Myrtle raised a ghostly eyebrow. “Interesting choice of reading material. So Hermione Granger does have a-”

“I brought it with me for bribery purposes only.” That was the absolute truth. She had thought Myrtle might need some persuasion to spill her guts about Malfoy. But she would leave out the fact that the book had been buried at the bottom of her suitcase for months. It had been a gag present from Ginny. She couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. She had been a little curious, okay?

“Read it to me,” Myrtle demanded imperiously. “I need some inspiration.”

Hermione scoffed. “No. After we’re done here, I’ll set up a page-turning charm for you. You can read it yourself.”

“Then my lips are sealed.” Myrtle mimed zipping up her lips.

They had a short staring contest before Hermione gave in. Their plan was seeming more and more ridiculous by the minute, but she had already committed half of her Saturday to it. She was going to see it through. If nothing else, this letter would give Malfoy a good laugh. Maybe soften him up for a more direct attack. “Fine. But you will never speak of this to anyone. Ever.”

Myrtle hovered cross-legged above the sink and motioned for Hermione to start. Her eyes were wild and eager. Hermione guessed that ghosthood could be boring sometimes. “As the sun went down, Violet twirled a radiant lock of her hair and looked out over the canal. Was he out there? The one destined to see her true heart beneath the beauty? She could feel him calling to her…

“Enough,” Hermione said half an hour later as Violet was about to greet a mysterious caller, slamming the book shut. “Time to get back to work.”

“One more chapter? Please?”

“No. Carry on with the letter. I want three pages within the hour.” She had skimmed ahead a little, and the book was on the verge of heating up. She was not reading _those_ scenes out loud in a grimy bathroom.

Her decision was just in time, as a first year darted into the room. The little girl took one look at Hermione and Myrtle before backing out into the hallway like her tail was on fire. Hermione hadn’t even needed to drag out her excuse about interviewing Myrtle for a History of Magic essay. When the footsteps faded away, Hermione straightened up and touched her quill to the parchment. “How about something on how it feels to be a ghost? Surely Malfoy wants to avoid that fate for himself.”

Myrtle sniffed. “Well, I always feel cold. I wasn’t wearing my warm socks on the day I was murdered…”

* * *

 

_One Hour Later_

“Screw it,” Hermione said suddenly, cutting off Myrtle’s long metaphor about plumbing. “This is silly. I’m not co-writing a letter to Draco Malfoy. I’m going to set up a Quick Quotes Quill and come back in an hour.”

 “Granger-“

“I told myself I was just acting as your scribe. But as I read this again, I can see way too much of myself in it. I’m influencing it too much. I can’t help myself.”

“Then be my ghost writer. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Malfoy would never know.”

“He would know. And if I thought that a merry little chat between childhood enemies would be enough, I would have done it already. It’s your voice he needs to hear. You’re the key to getting beneath his armour.”

“We really didn’t bond that much. I just rambled on like an imbecile and he stood there looking tense.” Myrtle tucked her hair behind her ear in what Hermione had started to recognise as a nervous gesture. “Stay. Please. I haven’t written a letter in decades. I need you to tell me which words to use.”

“You really don’t. I looked up your academic record. You were a smart witch. And there hasn’t been a conclusive study disproving Tenger’s hypothesis of ghostly memory retention, which means you’re still a smart witch.” Hermione eyed the letter one more time. “Probably.”

“I was good at reading stuffy old books. That was all. I’m a complete dunce when it comes to social interaction. People hated me.”

“I know the feeling,” she said wryly. “But this isn’t about being cool or popular. To reach Draco you need to use something real. Something raw. Your _passionate_ side, just like you said.”

“He’ll never listen to me. When Harry and Draco were fighting, I kept shouting and shouting but they ignored me.”

“Sometimes with Harry and Ron it can feel like I’m talking to a brick wall. But then one day, maybe weeks later, I realise that they were actually listening. We just need to whisper some new thoughts in Malfoy’s ear and then let them fester. Enough to get him to a place where he’s open to a longer conversation.”

“Boys can be so stupid. And girls too. They call me Moaning Myrtle, but I’ve heard some ridiculous whining in here over the years. Those stalls are not sound proof.”

“Malfoy might be an idiot, but he does have a brain in there somewhere. Or at least so his marks would suggest. He didn’t have to drop any classes for the N.E.W.T years.”

Myrtle floated forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. “What do you _really_ think of Draco? Not of his grades, but him as a person. Is he just a silly little boy? You must think he’s redeemable, to go to all of this trouble.”

“I think he’s weak. And lost. But that means that he’s vulnerable. That we can reach him. And if we can, then we should. He may be a generally awful human being, but I don’t think he’s crossed the line into evil. Not yet.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“I know you can. You’re the right person for this. Someone he can relate to without feeling threatened or preached to. Someone who can speak to both his soft spots and his hard pride. I could never pull that off. I trust you. I won’t even read the letter, I swear. I’ll pick it up off the floor with my eyes closed and seal it in the envelope. I’ll just be the delivery girl, nothing more.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Just please keep it G-rated, okay?”

Myrtle gave her a heavy wink. “I’ll try, but no promises.”

Hermione laid out the parchment on the floor with a sticking charm and set up the Quick Quotes Quill. “Give it a test.”

“Dearest Draco comma.”

Hermione laughed. “That worked, but you don’t need to say the punctuation out loud. The quill is very intuitive when it comes to formatting, but otherwise it’s purely dictatorial. It will write down exactly what you say. No flourishes or embellishments.”

“Okay good. Now shoo. This is private, for Draco’s eyes only.” Myrtle blew a kiss in the air. “Give that to Harry for me.”

Hermione shook her head. She would not be telling Harry about any of this. As far as he was concerned she had spent the day deep in the bowels of the library. She walked to the door but hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Myrtle?”

“Yes?”

She took a deep breath. “There was a troll on the loose in my first year. I was alone in a bathroom, crying, when it showed up. Harry and Ron blundered in and somehow we all miraculously made it out alive. But it was a close call. That’s why I resented you a little, when we first met. I felt like I could have been you, and that scared me. I’m sorry that I didn’t see you properly. But I’m glad we had a chance to talk today.”

“It wasn’t wholly unpleasant. You aren’t as much of a stick in the mud as I thought.”

“I might drop by some time. This bathroom is really close to my Charms classroom. It’s convenient.”

Myrtle shrugged. “You know where to find me.”

Hermione left Myrtle to her letter writing with a sense of fragile optimism. Myrtle was certainly something. Draco wouldn’t know what hit him.


	3. A Hand to Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She squared her shoulders and stared him down. “Are you ready to undo your mistake?”

Hermione turned to Draco as they waited for the lift to rise to Dumbledore’s office. “Ready?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Good. You don’t want to sound too rehearsed anyway.”

His foot started to tap with impatience. “Why is this thing so slow?”

“To make us nervous, of course, so that we can feel grateful when Dumbledore sets us at ease with his warmth and good humour.”

 “Malfoys don’t get intimidated by transparent theatrics.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

From past experience, she predicted that they had at least a full minute more to wait. She reached across the space between them to hold his hand, casually, like she did it every day. His hand was cold and sweaty, contradicting his brave words.

“Granger-“

She put a finger to her lips, shaking her head softly. They were close to the office now, and portraits had ears. She had noticed the portrait of a knitting lady hanging right next to the lift on her last visit. She traced letters on Draco’s palm with her fingertips, stroke by stroke. He frowned, trying to puzzle out the meaning. Really, it was just gibberish. She wanted to distract him, get him out of his own thoughts for a moment. But she could tell from the hitch in his breathing that her phantom scribbles were having an unintended effect. She couldn’t help smiling, and then the game was up. He slapped her arm gently, but there was laughter in his eyes. She had to resist the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

As the lift finally came to a halt, she let her hand slip from his gently. She placed her hands on his shoulders instead, giving him a rough nudge forward. “This is your show now. Remember that.”

“Our show.”

“Ours,” she agreed. “I’ll be right here.”

And they walked into the office together.

* * *

 

_Two Weeks Earlier_

Draco casually sauntered down the corridor. His instincts were telling him to sneak and to hide, but he knew that would be dangerous. He had to act as though there were suspicious eyes on him, because there probably were. Suspicious eyes and twitchy wands. He had only been free of the hospital wing for a few days, and he had no desire to return. He had kept his head down and his nose buried in textbooks. He knew he needed to make a move, any move, sooner rather than later, but there was someone he needed to speak to first.

And because he couldn’t sneak, all he could do was walk. Walk right up to the girl’s bathroom, push open the door and waltz in like he belonged there. It was a bold move, a Gryffindor move, and it almost physically hurt him to use it. Like putting on a coat that was too tight. Or so he imagined. It was something that had never happened to him, because all of his coats were expertly tailored, down to every last stitch. The closest he had come to the sensation was finding himself with ferret paws. He usually avoided that nightmarish memory like the plague, but now it brought to mind another thought that made him smile. Myrtle was an excellent gossip. Perfectly catty.

_Bad things can be watered down with the good,_ he thought.  It was the philosophy he had to pretend to believe in if he wanted to survive the year. He wasn’t aiming for miracles or heroism. Even fake belief had its limits. He just needed things to be a little less bad. He needed for himself to be a little less bad. The kind of bad that ended in reprimands and scoldings, not the bars of a prison cell or a beam of green light. He thought it was possible. Not likely, but possible. 

So here he was, _not sneaking,_ into the girl’s bathroom on the second floor. He pushed open the door with purpose and was met with the sight of a ghost having a seizure. On second glance, he realised it was just a fit of dramatics. Myrtle was waving her arms around wildly. He squinted at her for a second and then realised that she was actually pointing behind him. Before he could gather the courage to turn around, he heard the door slam shut. The slamming wasn’t really unusual. The castle was bursting with heavy doors that banged closed at the slightest gust of wind. It was something a person got used to. But he also heard the tell-tale click that a door made when it was locked by magical means rather than manual means. It was a subtle distinction, but in the echoing room it came across loud and clear.

It was followed by a choking sound from Myrtle. She rubbed her throat. “I tried to warn you that it was a trap. _She_ has been staking out the bathroom all week. She was almost ready to give up, but I _knew_ that you would come.”

There were only two she’s that would go to the lengths of stalking him like this when there were a thousand quieter ways to get his attention. He had sat across from Pansy an hour ago at breakfast, and she had calmly shovelled three bowls of porridge into her mouth in her determination to give him the silent treatment. That only left one she. “Granger. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it, really? After our last conversation? I think I’m being entirely predictable.”

The amusement in her voice grated on his nerves. She could afford to be flippant. It wasn’t _her_ life on the line. She didn’t have to pat his back or anything, but was a sympathetic frown too much to ask for? He finally turned to face her, taking in the unwrinkled uniform, the head held high. Did he detect a tightness around the mouth? Maybe she wasn’t quite as blasé as she wanted to appear. “I would have _predicted_ a touch-activated note. Or a code devised from a book on my library borrowing record. Something with a modicum of subtlety.”

She shook her head. “None of those methods would have guaranteed a reply.”

“I would have played along.” Granger looked sceptical, but it was true. He wouldn’t have been able to resist playing the secret message game with _Hermione Granger_. To have written proof of these bizarre interactions. A good Slytherin was always on the lookout for blackmail material. And there was a tiny part of him, deep down, that just thought it would have been fun. Trying to outwit each other with their silly low-stakes spy antics, like living their first year at Hogwarts all over again. Those were simpler times.

“It would have been inefficient.”

“It would have been more dignified than an ambush in the bathroom. Can’t a person pee in peace anymore?”

“This is a girl’s bathroom Malfoy.”

“My mistake. I’ll just be leaving then.” He eyed the door contemplatively for a few moments, but ultimately decided it was a lost cause. Granger was no idiot. The door wouldn’t be easy to unlock. A failed exit would just make him look desperate. They both knew that he _was_ desperate, but appearances were important. He leaned back against the wall instead, leaving his empty wand hand loose and flexible. It would give him momentum if things turned violent.

Granger just rolled her eyes at him. “If you want, I can slip you a coded message at dinner. Then we can write cute little notes back and forth endlessly until we end up right back here. Or we can just skip to the point and you can answer my question.”

“Okay, fine. What is your question?”

She squared her shoulders and stared him down. “Are you ready to undo your mistake?”

A week ago, he would have laughed off the question. It would have been a mad, hysterical laugh, but laughter nevertheless. He had gone through the What Ifs a thousand times. If he could go back in time, to age eleven, or thirteen, or to last Summer, what would he change? What would he undo? He couldn’t see any way out of this mess. It was an unsolvable riddle. Now, on the other side of an agonising pain and a bewildering kiss, on the other side of a complete shock to his system, the answer was simple. He would get Hermione Granger on his side. “Yes.”

She seemed a little surprised, still in her battle-ready stance with no battle to wage. He could see her hand twitch, as though she were about to raise it. He had no idea if she was planning to slap him, demand his wand, shake his hand, or do something more intimate. He was too curious to mount a defence.  But Myrtle was still floating next to Granger, right in his line of vision. Myrtle had the eyes of a hawk and they zeroed in on Granger’s twitchy hand with a wild gleam, like she wanted to bite it.

He glanced at his watch to defuse the tension of the moment, disappointed by the necessity of it. “We have Defence class in ten minutes. Could you have picked a worse time for a dramatic ultimatum?”

“It was you who triggered this with your clandestine bathroom visit, not me. Could you have picked a worse time for a cheesy heart-to-heart with Myrtle? If Snape detected a whiff of that, he would have eviscerated you.”

Myrtle swooped down between them, wagging her finger. “Enough, kiddies. There’s a little first-year who drops by around this time every day. _She_ knows how to show me proper courtesy. I could start my own fan club, like the one that follows the Bloody Baron around. I don’t want her tainted by you hooligans. Shoo.”

Granger gave him a serious look. “We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning at dawn. No one can know about this. As far as everyone else knows, we never spoke outside of class this year. I’ll help you come up with a plan to avoid your mission, for the common good, but you won’t get any hand holding from me. This is your mess and it will be down to you to clean it up.”

He made a mock bow. “When you deign to come down from your high horse, I’m sure I can spare a second to pretend to listen.”

“Dawn,” she repeated, as she strode out the door.

Draco let out a ragged breath. Well, they hadn’t actually accomplished anything yet, but at least the delightful meeting had transformed his nervous energy into anger. He felt marginally less paralysed.

“You could stay awhile Draco,” Myrtle simpered at him. “Her harping was giving me a migraine, but I always have time for you.”

Draco shook his head. “No, I really do have a class to get to.” When he reached the door, he hesitated. He had come to speak to Myrtle, after all, not Granger. But he found that he had no words for her. They were all choked up in his throat. There was only so much his pride could bend in one day. Maybe next time. He opened the door.

* * *

 

And so they met the next day, at dawn. Draco told her everything. There was no point in holding back now. She listened with a sympathetic ear to some parts, but to others he could sense the judgement radiating from her. It set him on edge, and made him colder in the telling of the story, which made her even judgier. It was a vicious circle. Myrtle’s interjections of “Ooh” and “Ahh” and “you poor thing”, were completely unhelpful.

At the end, Granger nodded, as if the tale were what she had expected. “You’ll need to go to Dumbledore, of course. The Ministry would throw the book at you the second they get a hint of a dark mark. They want a bone to throw to the angry crowds. But you’ll need to be smart about it.”

He sneered at her. “I was planning to be dumb about it. Maybe I could ask your friend Longbottom for pointers.”

She ignored him. “Dumbledore clearly has some kind of agenda here. He _must_ know about you. He isn’t blind, no matter what _your_ people might say. But his agendas don’t always go down too well for the people that get in the way.”

“Oh goody. Another Potter sob story.”

She spoke louder. “You need to give your story a wider audience. A group will debate and negotiate, then have to compromise. Then they will avoid the extremes of treating you too lightly or too harshly.”

“Is this group your Order of the Phoenix? The secret organisation that everybody knows about? What have they done lately?”

“We’ll approach Nymphadora Tonks. Your cousin. She’s an Auror trained under Alastor Moody, so no one could accuse her of being a soft touch. But I think if you appeal to her for mercy, she’ll give it to you. She’s curious about you. She asked me some questions when I met her at Harry’s last birthday party.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t demean myself by begging my poorest relation for help.”

“You couldn’t be demeaned any further if you tried,” she spat out harshly. “Tonks is worth ten of you.”

“Like you’re a good judge of character. You hang out with Weasley. Weasley!”

“Crabbe. Goyle.”

“You just-“

A giggle echoed through the room.

They both looked around in confusion.

“Myrtle?” Granger called out. “Where are you?”

“Everywhere,” Myrtle sang out. “Nowhere.” Her voice was drifting from one end of the room to the next. “What do you care? You didn’t even notice I was gone.” Another eerie giggle.

“The pipes,” Draco mouthed at Granger.

She nodded, then wandered over to where Myrtle’s voice had come from last, by the sinks. “Please come back out Myrtle. We’re really sorry. We got carried away.”

“It wasn’t nice,” she said with an edge. “This is _my_ bathroom. I won’t be ignored.”

With that, a geyser of water burst out of a tap with a loud bang, drenching Granger from head to toe. She just stood there, gaping like a fish. It was up to Draco to disable the tap with a _Null Locomortis_.

He held up his wand again, a drying spell on the tip of his tongue, but Granger shook her head.

“Okay Myrtle, fine, you got me. I look ridiculous and I just might catch pneumonia. Are we even now?”

The ghost popped out of one of the bathroom stalls, floating along with her legs crossed and her hands under her chin. “I suppose so. Just remember that I’m _here._ I’m always here. If you want privacy, go find some other hole in the wall. I’m not leaving.”

“We wouldn’t want you to,” Granger insisted. “We want your input. That’s why we decided to meet here. What do you think of my plan?”

Myrtle shrugged. “I met Tonks a few times. Friendly. Seemed like a steady girl. Forgot to flush sometimes…”

 “See!” Draco shouted.

Both women gave him a withering glare before turning back to each other.

“But you need something more,” Myrtle said. “You need a story. Something to melt their hearts and make them want to _help_ you instead of _use_ you.”

“I told you my story,” Draco growled.

“Myrtle’s right,” Granger said. “We need to make sure you project the right image. A lost kid, in over his head. Desperate and confused, with nowhere else to turn.”

“So the truth.”

“No, not the whole truth. You won’t be desperate. You’ll have backup plans within backup plans. But you can’t let Dumbledore see that preparedness, that competence, just the darker emotions.”

“Competence,” he scoffed, carefully avoiding her eyes. This was what it all came down to, their years of academic rivalry and snarky comments. His failed mission, his inability to complete it or wriggle out of it, had shown him the truth. She was competent and he was not. It was undeniable.

“You will be competent when I’m through with you,” she said. “Competence isn’t being wildly talented or having a sparkling personality. It’s just having a solid plan and the will to follow through with it. And you are going to have plans, plural.”

“Like what?”

“Turn yourself in to the Ministry. You’d spend some time in a cosy prison cell, but it isn’t your worst option. Or you could flee the country and go into hiding. I’ve researched that one before, and I’m sure you have as well.”

“Wouldn’t you feel guilty about that? Helping a marked Death Eater run away from justice?”

“It would be one of Voldemort’s chess pieces off the board. A valuable one. He doesn’t even realise it. Your rivalry with Harry and ability to make him lose his head. Your family ties. Your influence with the other Slytherins. It would be a blow to Voldemort if we shipped those things off to Antartica.”

“You wouldn’t need to go that far,” Myrtle chimed in. “I could hide you in here. I know how to keep people away. It’s a gift.”

Myrtle’s tantrums were famous. Now, Draco wondered how sincere they were. Maybe she hadn’t been in hysterical distress last month when she flooded the corridor and shut it down for a week. Maybe she had just wanted a quiet moment to herself.

“Just think about it,” Hermione said. “Surrendering to Dumbledore is the best option, but there are others.”

They parted ways more peaceably this time, without a smile but also without a frown.

* * *

 

The peace didn’t last. Once the humility of Draco’s confessed failures faded away, and Hermione’s sympathy had dried up, they fell back into old patterns. Their next meeting was loud and inefficient, ending in juvenile swipes about hairstyles. For the good of the plan, they agreed to communicate indirectly through Myrtle. It would be less suspicious, they told themselves. It would make Myrtle feel more involved. What they didn’t predict, was that their hostility was strong enough to survive a ghostly buffer, and that Myrtle would require monumental bribes to put up with their nonsense.

“Tell ferret-face that he can sacrifice one of his precious shirts to the cause. If his acting is sub-par, maybe a few wrinkles and tears will help sell the story.”

“Ask Granger if I can borrow that rag she was wearing on Monday. My own mother would believe I was a beggar if she saw me in _that_.”

“He is a beggar! The plan is to literally beg for Dumbledore’s help. I should be making him beg for my help. For your help! Aren’t you annoyed with his smug attitude? He’s done nothing to earn it.”

“She’s so condescending. Acting like the mighty saviour of wizarding kind. Nobody asked for her help.”

“He’s being unreasonable. He would only need to _pretend_ to be ready to call the Aurors. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him follow through with it. If he could just trust my judgement…”

“Insane! Absolutely insane! She isn’t all-knowing. She can’t get inside Dumbledore’s head. If she would just admit that she could be wrong…”

“Why won’t that arrogant bastard listen to me?”

“Why won’t that arrogant twit listen to me?”

“Yes Myrtle, the Mermance books you wanted will be here on Tuesday. Don’t tell Malfoy.”

“I’ll act out one scene with you. One! But Granger can never hear about this.”

* * *

 

_I need her,_ Draco thought, as he stared at the blackboard in Charms class. She knows that world, the bright haloed world of the Order of the Phoenix. If he had tried to throw himself on Dumbledore’s mercy without her inside knowledge, he would have ended up ground under his benevolent heel, just as much of a pawn, but for the white side instead of the black. And he needed her courage. Her determination. He knew his own mind, and if left to his own devices, even with the desire to do good, he would have waffled and wavered until he had slipped into full villainy. Sometimes when she’s out in the castle grounds, the wind whips her hair around until it’s a ball of frizz that couldn’t be contained by ten scarves, and she just keeps on walking to her destination like it doesn’t bother her, and all he can think is _I need her._

_I need him,_ Hermione thought as she picked at a bagel at breakfast. He’s my way in. Behind Harry’s back, she had discreetly sounded out if there were any way she could help out in the war effort. She didn’t want a grand mission, just some little way to be involved. All she had gotten from Professor McGonagall was a metaphorical pat on the head and an admonishment to focus on her studies. But her academic insecurity had vanished. There had been a turning point a few months ago, after solving an Arithmancy equation, when she had realised that she was good enough. More than good enough. She could ace her N.E.W.Ts in her sleep. She wasn’t scared of them anymore.

The war scared her. It was a physical and existential threat to her very being, her very place in the world. She needed to face it head on or she would drown in her fear. She needed Malfoy’s visceral awareness of the darkness, to prove to herself that it was really there outside this bubble of academia. He had intimate experience with the world of the Death Eaters, experience that made it a thing of blood and bone, not a thing of shadows and prophecy. She needed his grace, the way he just kept on moving, kept up a blank expression despite all the horror underneath. Sometimes she saw him in a crowd, saw the way his eyes stopped blinking for a few moments, dark lashes frozen against pale skin until the moment of pain passed, no other sign of it showing on his face, and all she could think was _I need him_.

* * *

 

After weeks of planning, and of hoping alternately that something would or wouldn’t happen to make their plans redundant, the day of reckoning finally came. It found Draco Malfoy with his head resting against the filthy floor of a toilet stall, as he tried to hold down the vomit. He could almost hear Granger’s voice in his head, telling him to let it out, telling him that the stench of it on his breath would make his act seem more authentic. Then her voice turned into his various Quidditch captains, giving pre-game and post-game talks, their rough and angry voices resentful that they had to hold back from the reaming they wanted to deliver, because he was Draco Malfoy and they couldn’t have him running to daddy with a complaint. The voice became feminine again, and he had to really concentrate to make out what it was saying. He realised it was because the voice was outside his head, and he had his hands covering his ears. He sat up slowly and let his hands fall to his sides, relieved to see that it was just Myrtle.

She frowned at him fiercely. He liked that frown. It had taken him weeks to earn it. She used to pout and giggle at him, expressions that belonged to the persona of Moaning Myrtle, but the frown was all hers, just Myrtle.

“Draco? Do you want some water?”

He shook his head firmly. Her idea of helping him quench his thirst would probably end with him dripping in toilet water.

“Big day, huh? Your rehearsal yesterday went well. Hermione was impressed. She’s not a very good actress. She can make up a good lie in the moment, but when her brain has time to kick in, she flounders. You can practically see her brain oozing out of her ears.”

He knew that half of the insult was to make him feel better, and the other half was just that Myrtle enjoyed being mean sometimes. He recognised it in himself. And in Pansy. When they were kids, sometimes they would just sit around making fun of each other, seeing who could be more vicious, who could claw harder. He remembered those times fondly. Pansy didn’t trust him enough to be mean to him anymore. He wondered what she would think of all of this.

“I could distract you. When I was thirteen, I was told by the church choir master that I had a good singing voice.”

“No,” Draco managed to croak out. “I’m okay. Save your voice for later. There’ll be a lot for us to talk about. If I can come back.”

“Don’t be silly Draco,” she said, the crack in her voice belying her words, “Dumbledore’s a good wizard. He always bores everyone with all of his talk about the light in the dark and redemption and second chances. He has to mean some of it.”

At his questioning look, she pointed to a pipe overhead. “I can listen to the Great Hall from up there. These pipes echo like crazy.”

“Myrtle,” he said. “I’ve been coming here every day, and I haven’t said it. The words. I did want to say them. The words.”

She put her ghostly hand against his forehead, but he had no idea if that would tell her anything. Could ghosts feel heat? Anyway, he wasn’t feverish, just a bit jumbled up. He supposed it was the sleep deprivation.

He rested his head back against the floor. The blood rushed to his head, and he could think a little more clearly. “Thank you. Those words. For everything. For trying to stop me from killing Potter or him from killing me. And for the letter. It helped, to know that someone could see me, someone without an agenda or a history to muddle things up. And for making Granger seem a little less scary, with your jokes and your snide comments. I couldn’t have accepted her help without that. And for not telling anyone else about my secrets. You could have told anyone, and you only told her. And thank you for not kicking me out of this horrible bathroom. I know I would deserve it, but I have nowhere else to go and this floor is my only friend now.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said.

“It isn’t,” he agreed. He lifted up his head and mustered up a smile for her. He was out of practice, but he thought she wouldn’t mind.

“Granger is your friend now too.”

He groaned and mimed devil’s horns at her. She just laughed.

The laughter cut off abruptly when the door flew open, but it was only Granger. She stood there watching them for a moment with her hands on her hips, taking in his pathetic state and exchanging some meaningful looks with Myrtle that he couldn’t catch from his angle on the floor. “I’m coming with you,” she declared.

“That isn’t in the plan,” he protested. She had been insistent all along that she was a silent partner, that her shining reputation couldn’t be sullied by association with him. Or something along those lines.

“It is now. We’ll come up with a cover story.”

He shrugged. “If it makes you feel better. Curiosity killed the cat.”

She gave him the same long-suffering look he had seen directed at Potter and Weasley a thousand times. The horror of that helped him to shake off enough of the crushing anxiety to lift himself off the floor and perform a cleansing spell on himself. He swept past her and out the door with a wink at Myrtle on the way out. “Are you coming?”

* * *

 

Myrtle sat atop one of the sinks, staring at the ceiling. When others were around, she liked to float mysteriously for dramatic effect, but when she was on her own, she liked to give herself the illusion of sitting. They had left half an hour ago, and she had no way of knowing what was happening. She growled at herself. She had seen so many students come and go over the years, with problems big and small. She had taught herself not to get invested. They would run into her bathroom, sobbing their little hearts out, and scream their woes at her or into a toilet. And then they would leave, and she would never know the end of the story. Either they had found their happily-ever-after and had no further need of haunted bathrooms or they had thrown themselves off a cliff. She told herself every time that she didn’t care which it was. But now she found herself liking these two. She was doomed.

“Yo, Myrtle,” she heard from the doorway.

“Here,” she said morosely.

Ginny Weasley sauntered in and jumped up onto the sink next to hers. It was a graceful movement, born of practice. The first time she had ended up with her butt in the basin and a wet skirt. That was four years ago and Myrtle had taught her a thing or two since then. “Don’t worry, they can pull this off. They _are_ pulling it off. I recruited the portrait of a milkmaid down the hall from Dumbledore’s office. If something had gone wrong, I would know about it.”

“Aren’t you mad, that Hermione didn’t tell you?”

Ginny shrugged. “No. If she told me, I would have only gotten her side of the situation, the prim and censored side. It wouldn’t have been half as amusing as your impressions of them. I so enjoy our little talks.”

“Your boys will be mad.”

Another shrug. “I love Harry and Ron. We both do. But they can be stubborn as rocks. Hermione has the right idea. Don’t ask permission, don’t ask forgiveness. They’ll find out and they’ll bluster around for a while and then they’ll get over it. And if they don’t, I’ll talk some _sense_ into them.”

Ginny had told her all about her idea of talking _sense_ into Blaise Zabini earlier in the year. And Michael Corner. And Dean Thomas. Myrtle really pitied the Potter and Weasley boys.

After an hour of waiting, playing noughts and crosses on the mirror to pass the time, they could hear footsteps outside.

“It’s them,” Myrtle whispered with a grin. “I’d know those footsteps anywhere. It worked! It really worked!”

Ginny gave her a high five. “Good job Myrtle. This will be one for the history books. I’ll make sure you get credit where credit’s due. If you want it. Sometimes it’s more fun to work from the shadows.” Then she slipped into a cubicle under the cover of a disillusionment charm to eavesdrop. She had six irritating older brothers. She knew how to make her own fun.

 


	4. Be Smart and Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Myrtle and Hermione's meddling.

They were one bend in the corridor away from the Room of Requirement, facing each other with a suffocating awkwardness. He had a strange urge to scuff his feet against the stone floor, but resisted for the sake of his premium leather shoes. The war might be about to blow up, but shoes were still shoes. He needed something to cover his feet, and they might as well be comfortable.

He took a deep breath and tried to work out how to say goodbye to an ex-nemesis before heading into danger, a danger that was eclipsed by the baffling desire to see them again, a lethal desire if ever there was one. “Is this where you tell me to be brave?”

His hand brushed against the rough wool of her cloak by accident and he clasped his hands behind his back to avoid it happening again. He hadn’t realised they were standing that close. She must have crept into his personal space while he was busy thinking grim thoughts.

“No. This is where I tell you to be _smart_. Sometimes it’s smart to be afraid. I know I am.”

He shrugged. “Then I guess your brain really is bigger than mine. I feel perfectly calm. Tranquil, even.”

She smiled. “Liar.”

“Just practicing.”

“Use your fear. They expect it. Just remember that you know more than they do. You have resources they don’t know about. Hidden reserves in yourself that you can call on.”

He wished he could call on the ferocity in her eyes, make it his own, but he just felt numb. Maybe that intensity came from the experience of winning adventures. He couldn’t remember that feeling. “Is that your trick? How often do you use it?”

“Every single day. I really am an insufferable know-it-all, by choice. Because that’s the smart thing to be in this world. Knowledge is power, so I try to be smart. You should follow my lead.”

He shook his head. “You should follow _my_ lead. Power is overrated. You should just try to be _safe_. Even if it means being a fool or a coward. Don’t play the hero. They don’t have a long lifespan.”

“Says the boy about to try and play a trick on vicious murderers and bigots in the name of the greater good, all because a hundred-year-old hero asked you to.”

He liked the sound of that. _Play a trick_. Like pulling a prank on Potter and Weasley. That had always been a favourite pastime of his. “Well if all goes to his plan, he only has minutes to live, so that rather proves my point.”

“We’ll agree to disagree. Let’s both be smart _and_ safe, okay?” She looked at her watch. “It’s time. Good luck.”

He couldn’t bring himself to return the sentiment. Good luck. Nothing about this situation had anything to do with good luck. If he were lucky he would be having a normal sixth year at Hogwarts and his biggest worry would be how to get the infuriating, stubborn, brilliant, pretty bookworm to kiss him again. But his luck sucked, so all he could do was watch her walk away. They hadn’t even touched, but sharing the same space with her, breathing the same air, gave him courage. She hadn’t told him to be brave, but her presence made it easier for him to tell it to himself. He screwed up his face a few times in a blend between a sneer and a frown, then tensed up his posture. He was ready to go play the bad guy.

* * *

 

_A Year Later_

Hermione knocked on the door four times in rapid succession, hoping it was recognisable as the secret knock, before she shouldered the door open and swung it shut behind her. She was supposed to wait for a double flush orchestrated by Myrtle before entering, but there was a battle going on out there and she couldn’t afford to wait out in the corridor like a sitting duck. The room looked empty, nary a ghost or human in sight. But she had a feeling. A few years ago she would have thought that was wishy-washy divination nonsense, but now she had some more faith in her gut. She told herself that it was only subconscious logical deductions manifesting as a physical symptom, but really, a feeling was a feeling.

She crept over to the middle cubicle and nudged open the door gently with her wand. As she had predicted, another wand crept through the gap to point at her head. A wand she recognised from six years of arrogant, careless twirls in the castle hallways. “Draco,” she whispered.

His head peered over the top of the cubicle to verify her identity, and she almost laughed as she realised he must be standing on the toilet seat to see high enough. She could hear a few banging sounds and muffled curses as he stumbled down, but by the time he was out of the cubicle he looked as cool as a cucumber. “Granger,” he greeted with a nod.

He became flustered again when she pulled him in for a hug. It was brief, but his hands gripped her shoulders tightly.

“So, how are you?” she asked after pulling away.

“Oh, just grand.”

As she met his eyes she could see that he had the urge to laugh at the silliness of her question, but like her, the constant bangs and shouts echoing through the castle choked the laughter in his throat.

“I heard you’ve been busy,” she said. “It was genius of you and Myrtle to figure out how to open lines of communication from the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Either that or really stupid. The security wards were much weaker down there, but there was always the risk that You-Know-Who would show up. He considered it his birthright, after all.”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, you were right to take the risk. It was the site of one of his greatest defeats. He wasn’t going to pop in for some tea and biscuits. You should be really proud. That line to the outside world changed everything.”

“It was Myrtle, really. She had the idea and remembered the parseltongue. All I did was convince people to take her seriously.”

“Not an easy job.”

“It wasn’t.”

They both looked around, waiting for Myrtle to come whirling out of a pipe to lambast them for the insult, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Luna sends her regards. I heard you were planning to make a trip home to try and liberate her. I’m glad you didn’t have to. That manor of yours is looking a bit shabby these days. I’m sure Snape’s hidey hole was a step up.” She tried to tell him silently with her eyes not to make a fuss over her capture. She couldn’t bear to think about it now, when Bellatrix Lestrange could be just down the hall.

His expression flickered with pain and regret for only a moment before he matched her breezy tone. “It was just the practical thing to do. Everyone here was useless without her. And I owed her father for the Quibbler. Those magazines saved me from extreme boredom when I was under house arrest.”

She pressed his hand with hers. She had a feeling that he wasn’t used to the physical contact, but she needed it. She had been a hugging machine all day as she reunited with all her friends, praying that each affectionate touch wouldn’t be the last. “Thank you, for being so patient about that, for not flying off to France with that emergency Portkey I gave you.”

“Waiting for the Veritaserum to brew was the only way to persuade the Order about Snape’s true loyalties.” He looked down at the floor. “Do you think Dumbledore would be furious that we broke his plan?”

She could tell that Draco had a weird respect for Dumbledore now. She wasn’t sure if it came from his brilliant and twisted machinations, or from his willingness to sacrifice for the cause. Her own respect for Dumbledore came from his endurance. She was exhausted from just this one war, but Dumbledore had been at the helm of three of them. “We didn’t break it, we just tweaked it a little bit. And it worked. Snape’s cover stayed strong and his inside knowledge saved lives. I think Dumbledore was clever enough to admit when he was wrong. So much has happened that he couldn’t have anticipated. He wasn’t all-knowing, no matter how twinkly his eyes were.”

“It’s been a long year. I just feel like I’m not doing enough.”

“I disagree, and so would a lot of other people. You certainly impressed Ginny.”

“Ginny Weasley? The red-headed harridan that called me a ‘useless pile of ferret faeces’ just a few hours ago?”

Hermione smiled. She would have to remember that one. “She meant it affectionately. You should hear some of the things she calls her brothers.”

“She and Myrtle have similar vocabularies. It’s a shame they don’t get along.”

“So is that how you think friendship works? Reading the same dictionaries? You have more friends than you would admit to here. People kept asking if we’d seen you as we moved through the castle. It drove Harry mad.”

Draco sighed. “I thought I should stay out of his way. Out of everyone’s way, for a while. Snape and I had a talk the other day about the benefits of being circumspect. He made some good points. The Death Eaters think I’m a coward who couldn’t play with the big boys, hiding behind my godfather’s coattails, but they still think I’m on their side. If I keep my allegiance murky I could catch a few targets off guard in a critical moment. But I just don’t think I have the mettle to go out there and pretend.”

“Then don’t. I think we’re way past the point of spy games and master plans. If you want to jump into the fray as yourself, then jump.”

“I think I will.” He looked genuinely happy at the idea of joining the fight. At least that made one of them. She had seen enough fighting already for a lifetime. But from all accounts from the DA, Draco was blossoming under hardship. She felt like she was withering away. Maybe she could steal some of his sunlight to help her make it through the day.

There was another explosion, one that sounded close. She stared at the door in fear for a few moments before she turned back to Draco. “Do you think we should-“

He kissed her. His approach was so clumsy and unsure that for a second she thought he was going to headbutt her. But once their lips touched he really committed to the kiss. Maybe the way her hands tangled in his hair or the weird little chirping noise she made gave him encouragement. When the kiss was over, she was surprised to find that they had moved two metres from their starting point, and her back was against a wall.

She was breathless, and her head was spinning, but she knew needed to say something on purpose, before something nonsensical popped out. “Why did you kiss me?”

He laughed. “I have so many motives it would make your head spin.”

“And you think I don’t? Tell me one.”

“That’s a long conversation and we have a battle to win.”

“We’ll meet here, afterwards. Then you have to let me interrogate you.”

He winked at her. “Only if I can return the favour.”

There were all sorts of creative interrogation techniques running through her mind. She couldn’t wait to try them out. The phrase loose lips suddenly had interesting new dimensions. “Deal.”

Draco looked up. “Myrtle! You can come out now!”

And suddenly the ghost was there in between them, hands on her lips. “Took you long enough! You only had ten seconds left before I decided to smash your heads together. The Bloody Baron has been teaching me ghostly battle techniques. There’s a corpse in the third cubicle, by the way. Nasty fellow.”

At the horrified look on their faces Myrtle just giggled.

“Maybe we’ll meet somewhere else,” Hermione suggested.

Draco shrugged. “Or we could go out there together, for efficiency. Then we won’t need to arrange a meeting place. What do you say? Do you have my back?”

Hermione smirked. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

 

 

 


End file.
